


Want 1: Wet

by Teland



Series: Want [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-17
Updated: 1999-07-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 02:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21067016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Nobody benefits from a lot of pointless thinking.





	Want 1: Wet

Ray's on his own bed, surprised to be dry.   
Sure, it's after 3 a.m., but it's the armpit  
middle of Chicago summer. Which means it's   
hot and sticky, which in turn means he   
should be ball deep in his own sweat.

And, technically, he is.

Sweaty. 

But Ray's pretty sure he hasn't been wet since a   
day or so after he got back from the damned   
pirate case.

It had taken a while, a really really long while   
for him to dry out, but once he had, he'd   
stayed dry.

Dry all day every day. Dry in the shower, dry in  
the precinct car with the busted air conditioner   
that *still* worked better than his own, thank   
you very much.

But dry.

Ray isn't an idiot. He knows from residual   
trauma, and while it's never quite been like *this*,   
it's been. Oh, it's been. 

So he knows what's going on, knows that when   
he *does* get to sleep he'll dream and he'll be   
dreaming of a whole bunch of water and death.

Fraser hadn't known that Ray had actually *tried*  
to learn how to swim. Not that Ray had   
enlightened him, but you'd think constant   
repetitions of the words "I can't swim" might   
have clued him in that this was more than just   
another barbarian-of-the-city thing.

It didn't. 

Ray dreams -- too often -- of being surrounded on  
all sides by blue and/or green water that's   
frighteningly clear in the fading terminal between   
darkness and a weak, weak sunbeam reaching   
down and down to where his ankle is caught in   
this swaying, swinging vine...

Not that this ever actually happened, you see. He's   
never even the same age twice in the dreams. They  
developed over years of summers at the   
community center patently failing to learn.

Maybe it was because no one ever told him to be   
a flower before. 

Some weird Bambi-skunk thing. Fraser makes the   
friggin' sun shine by calling Ray a *flower*. 

Yeah, he hears the music swelling from here. 

He thinks, "that's how I can bring this up with   
Fraser." 

There's this skunk, and a deer --

A deer, Ray? I'm not aware of any species of deer  
that spends its free time with rabbits, Ray.

He thinks, "when he's talked himself out, six,   
maybe seven years later, I'll get to the part where  
I figure out how to thank him for teaching me   
how to swim, except, I can't get it out of my head  
and I've never been a big fan of water that   
doesn't come out of nozzle, so I'm having these   
*nightmares*, and you're never there to *help*."

He listens to the music playing and he's *still*   
waiting for it to swell. All it does is... is *beat*   
at him. There's lyrics, he can tell, but they're all  
one big mumble. 

He knows exactly three lines from the song, and   
he never actually remembers that he does until  
after those lyrics have passed, thereby   
thwarting all attempts he makes to sing along. 

He has no clue why the thing is still in the   
stereo.

"I wish you were here with me now..."

Well, he'd caught that one. He could pat himself   
on the back if he didn't know how his skin would  
friggin' *stick* to the sheets were he to try to   
actually move. 

And when you stick to cotton, you are no longer   
human. 

Ray *does* know why the CD is still there. It's   
because the only time he comes in this room is to  
sleep. He'd read that once, or maybe Frannie   
//Francesca// had read it to him badly out of   
some book. To cure insomnia, only go to bed   
when you're supposed to sleep. 

Of course, that didn't say anything about coming  
in the room one day just to change the CD and   
leaving without even friggin' *looking* at the bed,  
but Ray's pretty sure that anything coherent he   
manages to get out of Frannie //Francesca//   
when she's not hitting on Fraser is found money.

His to spend, not to question. 

He shifts a little and finally he can no longer   
stop himself from running one hand through   
the dampness on his chest and belly and   
proving, *proving* that he's wet and not dying. 

Or remembering what it felt like under Fraser's  
touch under all that *water*. Ray hadn't thought   
you could float in something so heavy, but you   
could. Just way too slowly to get to anything like   
air without arms wrapped around him and   
tugging up under his shirt, brushing over his   
chest, wet and wet against his own wet skin.

Dragging over it, really. He thinks, "how could  
you be different kinds of wet in all that water?" It   
just doesn't seem like it should work that way,   
though it's possible it's got something to do with   
it being his skin and Fraser's friggin *wool*. 

And that was months ago, and now it was time for   
the next part of the evening, which included him   
jerking off.

Well, it was *entirely* him jerking off, actually. It   
wasn't like there was anyone there who could turn  
his shameful masturbation into a perfectly   
respectable handjob, say, maybe while holding   
him somewhere else, too.

That was the part that was supposed to be the   
double entendre, he knows, but he already   
*had* Fraser's hand on his dick and he wanted   
the other arm around him somehow. Except   
that he'd stooped to hugging Fraser all the   
time, it seemed, so Ray hasabout 800 different  
ways of being held in his memory to choose   
from. 

He decides on one that allows him to rest his   
forehead within the cup of Fraser's shoulder   
while he's being... while he's getting that   
handjob. They would *both* be on their knees   
and that hand would be hitting him just *like   
this*, stroking him that way. He thinks, "expert   
little whore motions except that they probably   
came from the Kama Sutra, which Fraser's   
grandmother read to him because, you know,   
those winters are *long* in Beavercock, Canada  
or wherever I'm from."

Ray's thumb-knuckle pushes bonily into the   
curls at the base of his cock. This is where he   
feels the best, and not just because this is where   
he *wants* to feel the best, either. It's one of the   
few parts of his body with thick hair and the   
sweat just *stays* there. 

There's no denying the dampness there. His fist is   
wet but not quite *slick* on his cock. Wet on wet   
isn't the only touch he knows from Fraser, but   
it's the one that won't leave his mind so it's the   
one he does his best to duplicate and for a flash  
Fraser *is* there, one hand cupping Ray's ass,  
the other is... fisted around his cock.

Ray hears himself cry out a little, jerks up into   
his own grasp. He thinks "no real reason to be   
freaked by water and not *get* anything out   
of it."

And he sees Fraser looking at him seriously. No,   
Looking At Him Seriously. Blue eyes paler, mouth  
open, watching him like Ray is supposed to   
figure out some major issue by sheer glance alone.

That's the was Fraser always looks at Ray when   
he touches him. When he jerks Ray off with them  
both so wet even the pre-come Ray's shooting   
doesn't make it slick.

It's awkward this way, not like any sex Ray's really   
had since he and Stella had gotten central air.   
Fraser strokes him faster now, seeing Ray is   
paying good enough attention.

He thinks, "it's just possible that Fraser'll start   
trying different methods beyond saying my   
name so many times people think I've forgotten   
it." It's the *Vecchio* bit he's supposed to screw   
up, but Fraser's got everyone thinking it's Ray.

People really seem to think he'd *willingly* go  
around letting people call him Stanley.

But it's possible that Fraser will see Ray   
choking or something in the middle of the   
squadroom and immediately decide he   
needs more oxygen and mold his lips to   
Ray's and...

And then Ray will slip his tongue right into   
the man's mouth, just like he almost did the   
last time //and really, what else are you   
supposed to do when your lips get locked with   
other lips through no fault of your own?//, the   
only thing stopping him then was Fraser   
blowing air into his mouth and even right then   
he hadn't been able to just think "Canadian   
kissing" and plow on the second they were   
wet together on land. 

But he'll kiss Fraser this time, air or no air,   
and suck his face like a teenager if he has to   
to get what he needs.

Ray, are you going to have an orgasm now?

He snickers so hard he doesn't feel what the   
motions do to his cock for a little while. When   
he does, it rocks him both because it feels so   
incredible and because it's like his mind was   
storing up the charge for him.

He strokes himself faster, not quite up to that   
fantasy-blur, but by no means keeping hold of   
even the tiniest notion that Fraser is doing   
this for him. Fraser wouldn't be this merciful.   
Fraser would drag it out until Ray begged, cried,   
admitted he was right... he wouldn't even be   
merciful then.

He'd work Ray until Ray had the *right*   
orgasm and, because it would, in fact, be an   
orgasm it's not like Ray would be able to   
complain.

He thinks, "I'd beg him not to let me up from   
wherever I fell just so I could suck him and   
*pretend* to myself it was as good for him   
as it was for me."

And yeah, it's just late enough in the evening's   
festivities that that thought just makes him   
harder, hotter. Sweat more. 

He fucks into his own fist and doesn't try to   
give it any correspondence to anything in   
his mind. He doesn't even try, wants to   
believe that he really couldn't, not right now.

See, 'cause if he can, that means it's not good   
enough to compare to everything he's not   
getting. 

Yes, Ray, this changes everything. It would   
have to, wouldn't it?

Yes indeedy, Fraser. Am I attractive when I   
come all over you?

Quite so, Ray.

And he's laughing and not so much shaking his   
head as rolling it back and forth on the pillow.   
His neck is arched up, his body in this rolling   
curve that doesn't look a thing like a wave, but  
hits just as hard. 

He makes this noise like a sobbing cough and his  
cock spits hot on his belly and fist. 

And he doesn't relax until he has to, and then he  
just lays there and waits for sleep to catch up   
with him again.

End.


End file.
